Kinds of touch and stages of life
by Motek
Summary: REPOSTED. "She was the Rogue. The untouchable one. The one who no longer needed to touch. But suddenly there was him, his eyes and the way he settled them on her. It almost hurt her phisically." ROMY. Rogue-centric.


**A/N: Hello. Some of you maybe remember this story, because it was here, before someone removed it. BUT. I like that story, I think it's one of my best, and I really want it to be here, so I',m submitting it once again, and beware there is a lot of swearing (I think that was the problem, but whatever.) So, enjoy, hope this time it will be here for longer.  
Also, as usually, English is NOT my first language, I'm sorry for all mistakes, I'm trying to correct them, but it's not always easy to see them all.**

**Disclaimer: The story is mine, everything else belongs to MARVEL.**

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**Kinds of touch and stages of life**

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There are many kinds of touch.

The kind when someone squeezes your hand and then entwines their fingers with yours, making you feel this ridiculous goose bumps running up your arm and neck, exactly from the place when their fingers touch yours.

And that kind when someone's lips trace your jawline and cheeks and eyelids, leaving your skin so hot that you can barely breathe from the feeling. When the same lips deliciously slide across your earlobe, move against delicate skin of your neck, while telling you how beautiful you are, how _loved_ by them. Your faces are so close that the only thing you can focus on is warm breath, ghosting over you.

There is also a passionate one. When your body is so close to the other one that you don't seem to recognize which is which anymore. Every inch of your naked skin is touched, kissed, caressed, _cherished_. Your own hands are wandering around this strange, yet so familiar body of the person you are embraced with. Your nails are digging into their back, while you are both moving. You can feel nothing except the bare skin and the heat, and those hands. Those wonderful, talented hands, which are giving you that blissful feeling you almost, _almost_ dare to call _love_.

And also a peaceful kind. When you're laying calmly in a bed, encircled by two strong arms, which are holding you tightly against the bare skin of the lean and muscular chest. You can feel every breath the person behind you takes, your nerves focus on every movement their muscles make. You can feel their very heat.

Finally there is also the one that can never be forgotten. The most intimate kind. The kiss. The touch of lips to lips, tongue to tongue. The slow caress or furious, soul searing moves. That one kind when you are not thinking at all, because your mind is just so busy participating in that action that there is no free space to _think_. There is only pure _feeling_, travelling from your swollen lips to every little fibre of your body. And suddenly all you can do is press that body of yours so hard to the other one that you can feel their breath living them, because of your action. It's hot, lingering over your face and it leaves you breathless as well.

There were indeed many kinds of touch and they all had one thing in common.

_She_ could _not_ feel them.

She was the Rogue. The untouchable one.

Every possible inch of her body was covered by the protecting layer of fabric. Her hands had been gloved for so long that she could no longer remember the feeling of her own skin, not mentioning the skin of the others. She was the one, for whom _the touch_ was forbidden. Strictly, absolutely and completely _forbidden_.

She _could not_ touch.

When her powers manifested themselves for the first time, she was scared. No, not scared, but _terrified_. In her entire life she'd never felt such paralysing fear. When later she thought about events of that night, she still wasn't sure _who_ she was at the time. She wasn't even sure which thoughts were her own and which belonged to _the others_. All she could remember was terrified voices screaming inside her head, overwhelming fear and that one thought that was common for all people in her mind. The one that was hitting her over and over again; stronger with every hit. Even though she couldn't consciously comprehend it, her subconscious already knew and cried it out for her.

_Don't touch._

And so she didn't.

She couldn't tell how long she was scared after that. Mostly because it was _too_ long,_ too_ painful and _too_ exhausting to remember all of it.

As time went by her fear slowly faded to soon be overshadowed by a different emotion; more familiar this time. _Anger._

The Rogue was _furious_. And it could never be a good combination.

She. Could. Not. Touch.

The meaning of those words suddenly hit her with so much force that she wasn't able to see straight when she was thinking about it. The only things that appeared in her mind were colourful versions of one sentence.

"_Why the hell this fucking shit happened to me?"_

Yes, her anger was immense and lasted much longer than fear had. Furthermore it took so many forms that it was impossible to remember them all. Especially for inhabitants of the institute, even if they experienced only a tiny bit of her rage and she showed it in her own ways only a few could see.

Sometimes she would hit a little harder than necessary during her combat session with Logan and he would give her _the_ _look_, smelling her anger. Sometimes she would glare more menacing at Kurt and he would immediately disappear from her sight and only a quiet sigh would reach her ears, when she was already alone. Sometimes she would snap at Kitty about something stupid with more anger than the situation required only to receive a mix of irritated and sympathetic look.

But the worst wrath was always only inside her, only for _herself_. She wanted to scream, to hit, to hurt, to beat someone or something until she couldn't catch her breath, couldn't move even one muscle from exhaustion. She would run, when she was alone. She would scream, when no one could hear. She would never ever shed a tear over herself.

Well, that phase ended after she'd pushed Mystique off the cliff. It was the culmination of all fury and rage she had inside. The only thing which stayed was self-pity.

She was once the Rogue. The untouchable one. She decided for herself.

Now she was the _used_ one; a tool that people took to deal with their own business. It was the way Mystique had treated her. It was the way Apocalypse had treated her. And, sadly, it was the way _she_ was beginning to treat _herself_.

Once again in her fucking life she wasn't sure who she was and where she belonged. She was wandering in uncertainty again.

"_Was the first time not enough, for God's sake?"_

No, because if it was then _he_ wouldn't be a part of it.

Long story short. That period ended with a piece of plastic, which happened to be a playing card and a sentence, _"You will be fine, Chérie. You have people watching over you."_

He didn't mean _people_.

And so once again she was the Rogue. The untouchable one. And suddenly it seemed as if she didn't care. During all that time and after all those periods she had built tall walls around herself; though and invincible (at the time at least).

Because really, what else could happen? After overwhelming fear about her personality, bones and souls (mostly _her_ bones and _her _soul) breaking rage and that sick, gut-twisting pity she didn't expect much from life.

After all of it she truly believed – no! She was _sure_ that she did not care. Not anymore.

She was the Rogue. The untouchable one. The one who no longer needed to touch.

But well, of course, shit happens. Or to be more precise, shit happened to her.

She went through practically _everything_ to strengthen her barriers and bring herself to not caring, but obviously it mattered little for her fate.

Because then it was _him_. And all the walls she had put around herself, all the distance she'd created between the world and herself, all running away from people – all of it just _shuddered_ when _his_ eyes locked on her emerald, wide and scared to death ones.

Exactly. _His eyes_.

The eyes of a devil, they said. _(Le Diable Blanc.)_

Blood on the dark velvet. _(Crimson rubies on the blackest night sky.)_

The most intimidating and scary ones, the rumour flew_. (The most beautiful and unique she had ever seen.)_

Exactly. _His eyes _and the way he settled them on her. It almost hurt her physically.

She refused to believe, she refused to even _acknowledge_ that those burning red on black eyes would be able to cause this. That _he_ would be able to cause this. And yet here he was, joining the X-men, as if it was absolutely typical situation and here it was _happening_.

Needless to say she didn't leave her room for the next twenty four hours.

Needless to say it didn't help. Not even _one bit_.

Suddenly her life became a blur, an emotional roller-coaster with _him_ anywhere she looked or anywhere she went. And for a tiny moment, one tiny, refreshing, wonderful moment she seemed to hate it, but even she couldn't stand an illusion of her hatred. She had tried so hard that it completely exhausted her in every possible way and she had failed anyway.

It got worse.

Suddenly from being _physically_ everywhere she was, he also appeared somewhere he hadn't seemed to be able to appear before. Somewhere in the background of her every thought, somewhere in the back of her mind when she was falling asleep, somewhere in the depth of her dreams.

But she was still _fighting _it. She kept telling herself that it had changed nothing; _he_ meant _nothing_. She couldn't touch, so what? She didn't need it.

_He had changed nothing._

She clung to this thought as if her life depended on it and in a way, it did. Because his presence so very _had_ changed _everything_ that it hurt. It fucking did.

She could feel with his every smirk that her walls cracked a little. With every flirtatious comment there was another tiny break in her barriers. Every time he caught her by surprise and pinned her up against the nearest wall (by some miracle _not_ actually _touching_ her skin) and before she could beat him senseless, the ground which was under the walls quivered slightly.

But if his cocky behaviour scratched her line of defence then his other actions were hitting her with a force she didn't think possible.

For his arrogant remarks, she had her sharp retorts. For his cheeky grins, she had her cold glares. For his quick (skilful) hands, she had her hard and sudden kicks. But when he caught her gloved hand and squeezed her fingers briefly, just letting her know that he was _there_, she had nothing. When the word _"Chére"_ rolled off his tongue with such an utter adoration, she had nothing. When he stubbornly and very purposely put himself regularly in a coma, stealing quick kisses from her, she had nothing.

Summing it all up, against his love, she had absolutely and completely _nothing_.

Yes, _love_. Because that was the proper name for the goddamn feeling and she knew it. Every time his lips landed accidentally (that's what he called it, that prat) on hers, glimpses of his mind went straight into her head. She knew that after their impromptu trip (well, actually the word impromptu would be used only to describe _her_ part of the trip) to New Orleans he'd been watching over her for weeks. She knew that he hadn't come to fight the Apocalypse, because at the time he was laying unconscious after some Guild's business had gone terribly wrong (why the hell didn't he tell her?). She was aware (and did nothing to stop it) that from time to time he crept into her room only to make sure she still kept the Queen of Hearts in her drawer. She told herself that it was that ridiculous comfort he took from the action that prevented her from kicking him to the next Tuesday. She knew that every time his eyes were traveling around her body he wished with every fibre of his being it were his bare hands instead. True, to know that she didn't need him inside her head, but to comprehend that he so badly wanted to touch her _not_ because of an empty lust she most certainly did need his thoughts.

And the worst thing in all that _fucking_ knowledge was the fact that he was not going to give up on her. He _would not_ leave her, because, damn this stupid Cajun, he _did_ love her!

She wanted to hate him for that, to even loathe him with whole her heart, but because of that single fact alone, she wasn't able. She was trapped.

Finally one day the worst happened. She didn't know how he managed to sneak up on her so easily _again_, but he was a damn thief, he had his ways and one of them included her being suddenly oh-so-close to him, trapped between his arms and with his lips pressed so tightly against hers that there was no chance it could be an accident. _Him_ kissing her was one thing (very common looking at his suicidal tendencies and the fact that, in her opinion, he was crazy), but _she_, the Rogue, the _untouchable_ one, kissing him _back_ with as much fever as she only could manage in that short amount of time before he landed unconscious on the floor, was something _entirely_ different. And the moment she moved her lips in response was also the moment something in her snapped.

Actually, not snapped, but crushed and shattered with a noise of a million mountains falling apart. Just like that all the barriers were gone. All walls broke and felt down on her, but surprisingly it _did not_ hurt. On the contrary, it was warm and tasted like cherry cigarettes and bourbon, and Cajun spices. Like New Orleans' nights and Mardi Grass freedom.

It tasted like _love_ (and two weeks lasting coma for him).

And suddenly from the person who claimed that she didn't need touch, she became someone who desperately _craved _it.

All because of him. Now she had every right to hate him. She had _the reason_ to hate him and what? What happened with the Rogue and all her anger, aggression and confidence that she didn't need anyone?

The answer for that was simple, really. That Rogue was buried under the rubbles of her own walls, something which was supposed to be her _protection_.

Because. Of. Him.

Because she craved _his _touch.

His calloused fingers between her ungloved ones. His arms around her frame. His face buried into her neck. His lips (those damn lips) smashing against hers until she couldn't breathe from his kisses. She wanted his bare chest against her breasts, his hands moving along her arms, her stomach, her thighs; his breath on her skin. She wanted her name to burn in his throat as she embraced him.

Mostly she just wanted to hold onto him and never let him go. The conclusion was very easy to work out in that case. Yes, she was utterly and madly in love with him. And she did the only one thing she was familiar with.

She ran. From him, of course. From his piercing, devil, _gorgeous_ eyes, from his genuine smile, he gave only her, from his hands, always ready to grasp hers. But if anytime the running was an option, _this_ time it didn't help. Sadness and emptiness following her escape was almost impossible to take. _Almost_, because she did it anyway. Funny was that the most unbearable thing in all her (_their_) situation was seeing the sudden hurt in those rubies people naively called eyes.

_He had no right to feel hurt._ It was all his fault and _she_ was a victim, not _him_. Yet something in her (stupid something!) was telling her that it was real, that it wounded him as much as it did her. It was simple enough observation to do nothing with. So she did exactly that. _Nothing_. She was just bleeding. And that was another stage of her life. The difference was that this time she was sure it would be also the last one.

She was the Rogue. The untouchable one. The woman, who would gladly die to be able to touch (_him_) just once, but had no chance to fulfil that wish anyway. All of sudden her sadness became dangerously close to _grief_.

That was when the Professor decided it was time to let her know what her future _could_ look like.

"_It's hopeless."_

"_Would you give up only because of that? Think about that Rogue."_

And she _did_ think. Very thoroughly so. The decision was obvious. The truth was that even if she wasn't aware of the knowledge Professor held about the future, she would follow his words anyway. She trusted him, so she started working. It wasn't easy or pleasant, or even satisfying. Nothing of that matter. It was, delicately saying, barely endurable, exhausting and _fucking_ hard. But it _did_ give her hope.

Yes, the Rogue _hoped_.

It wasn't the happy kind of hope, no. It was the kind when you are so _scared_ of what will you do if you fail that it gives you the strength to fight even more. She fought the battle not only with her powers, but mostly and mainly with herself; with her past, her anger, her sorrows and every single one of her fears.

And in the meantime, Remy waited. Because he _knew_. She had absolutely no idea how he had done it (only Professor and Logan – because of his ability – were involved in her sessions), but he knew nonetheless.

And – God bless him! – he _hoped _too. She could tell that by those joyful sparks, which were dancing in his eyes whenever she was in his sight. By the perpetual smirk he was wearing (not that he hadn't been smirking all the time before, but this time it was different and she just knew it). Most of all by the fact that he didn't push her anymore, didn't chase her, because he was sure (that arrogant bastard) that she _will_ come to him. And, damn him, he was right! That's why he waited.

That was when she realised something. Something which really should have been obvious by then, but she hadn't quite seen it before.

When _she_ was sad, _he_ was sad too. When she was bleeding, he was bleeding with her. She fought, he fought as well (for her mostly). And now they both hoped. If _this_ wasn't a sign that they were meant to be, then she really didn't know what could be. As simple and pompous as it seemed to be, it really prevented her few times from throwing everything to hell, taking Logan's bike and driving until she would no longer recognize the way home. Well, that and his presence. Because at some point (she didn't know when or why or _how_) she'd stopped running. She no longer took her still very gloved hand from his, whenever he grasped it. She didn't push away his arm when he hung it around her shoulders. Though she was still reluctant to admit that she did lean into him every time he pulled her into his arms.

The Professor smiled at this with that kind smile of his and just continued working with her, knowing exactly how it will end. He only couldn't tell how long it will take.

Well, it took _a while_. (716 days and 5 hours, not that she counted.)

During that time world changed a little, not too much, really.

She let her hair grow longer (it had nothing to do with the fact that he liked playing with her curls between his fingers, no, that would be ridiculous) and the Gothy make up was permanently gone (no comment needed here).

She visited New Orleans during Mardi Grass, willingly this time (of course he was with her, stupid question).

During one particularly rough session she broke Proffesor's desk in two halfs by a simple slam of her fist and then started floating in the air (she didn't freak out, not even a little bit, 'course not, things like _that_ happen every day).

From more extreme experiences, she physically _and_ emotionally survived the incident with Bella Donna. First she wanted to kill _him_, then she transferred her wrath to the Guild, but in the end all her rage focused on the blond swamp bitch, who almost succeeded in killing her during the damn ceremony (or during attempts to stop said ceremony). Almost, because that stupid, no good, stealing, lying, arrogant, egoistic, absolutely and completely _necessary_ in her life Cajun decided to cover her with his own, very vulnerable in the situation like that, body. Oh yes, even Logan found it difficult to keep her in place and by doing so saved Bella Donna from being brutally ripped into tiny pieces.

She hadn't worked with the Professor for a month after that, because she refused to leave his side in the infirmary. She was with him every day. She called him a fool and then held his hand as if her very life depended on it.

However the most important in that situation fact was that she said _it_. She said she _loved_ him. True, he was unconscious at the time, and true, she barely could comprehend what was going on around her (he was fighting for his life, for Christ's sake!), but it was by no means the biggest step she'd ever done in her life.

So yes, world had changed a little, not too much, really.

Until the seven hundred and sixteenth day at least. That day Professor said it was done. She had done it. After so many hours and efforts, after being scared, angry, sad, after so many days of hope she was finally _done_. Xavier told her there was no longer a threat of her powers going out of her control. He even checked her mind (_twice_), because she asked him to do so. Because she wanted to make sure that it wasn't a fluke, that there would be no slip, that she will not put anyone (him) in danger. Well, it turned out she won't. She asked Professor and Logan not to tell anyone. They nodded only.

She didn't make a move for the next three months. She couldn't really tell _why_. Maybe she just didn't want the first thing to be ripping off his shirt? Or maybe she wanted to prove that she was able to control not only her powers, but also _herself_? Maybe she wanted to make sure he still waited?

Whatever it was, she was sure he was beginning to suspect something anyway, because it was no longer him, who was coming into contact with her.

During that three months it was Rogue, who found him purposely and linked their fingers together. It was she, who buried her face into his chest and clung to his arms as if there was an abyss underneath her and she feared falling into it. It was she, who came to him, when he was sitting on the roof, and traced the features of his handsome face with her gloved fingers. In other words, she was coming closer and closer during last three months and if he didn't see it, he most certainly felt the change.

To said he was happy would be an underestimate. He was in a state of pure and utter _ecstasy_.

After every single sign of her affection, he was grinning maniacally for the next few hours. When she brought herself in a safe space of his arms, he hold her so tightly that she could swear she felt his blood flowing through his heart, even though they were still very thoroughly clothed. When her hands were tracing patterns on his arms or chest, he sighed contently and buried his face deeper into her hair.

She was the Rogue. Not the untouchable, but the _untouched_ one. Until one day in May. It wasn't any special day, not really. Usual day in spring, which happened to be the first one of the mission for Cyclops, Wolverine _and_ Gambit. Normally she would be assigned for that trip as well (during last few years there was practically no mission without _both_ of them being included), but this time it was about spying on some illegal antimutant organisation so the smaller amount of people were involved, the better. Logan would go, because of his sharp, animal-like senses and soldier experience, Scott because of his logistic mind (or the stick in his ass, whatever) and Remy? Well, because of being Remy, the charming, arrogant thief he was. His skills and abilities were the most required ones to accomplish this mission.

That's why she was a little anxious (_a little_, really). She crossed her arms and glared at him lightly, while Scott and Logan were preparing the jet.

"You better come back in one piece or you'll be dealing with meh," she poked him in the chest with her index finger. He only smirked.

"I always knew you care for this poor Cajun here, _Chére_."

She rolled her eyes, but smiled at him with one of those tiny smiles she had when they were around the others.

"Yeah, whatever."

Knowing that it was her way for saying, "Of course I do, you stupid Swamp Rat, what would I do without you?", Gambit reached behind her and pulled a little worn out Queen of Hearts from the back pocket of her jeans (how the hell did he kn– oh, never mind, he was a _talented_ thief). Not wasting another second he pressed the back of the card to her lips, silencing her _"what-"_ and then firmly placed his own lips against the piece of plastic. He probably thought it was "a kiss" he could afford before the mission.

That was the moment when she realised it was not _enough_ anymore. It could never again be enough, because he _could_ afford _so much more_.

He had to notice some change in her widen eyes, because he pulled away earlier than she would expect from him.

"A kiss from my lucky lady."

He gave her the most charming smile from his collection and offered her the card back. She stared at it for a couple of seconds before grabbing the collar of his trademark trench coat and crashing her bare lips to his in a very _real_ kiss this time. In his defence, it only took him a few moments of an awkward shock (forgive him, it's not every day you come to realise that the woman of your life with a poison skin, well… doesn't have a poison skin anymore) to wrap his arms around her frame with bones crashing strength. Logan only glanced at them, pulling shocked Cyclops into the jet. Maybe he could allow Gumbo to have some fun before the mission.

"Hurry up, Stripes!" Or maybe not. "We need him _this_ time."

However his voice barely reached Rogue in her world. She was kissing him. With no protecting fabric or barrier; lips to lips. As if there was no tomorrow. It wasn't sweet, soft or contemplative. It was soul searing, greedy, hungry and heated. But most of all it was a _relief_.

Relief, because she _could_ kiss him. She could come to him anytime and kiss him senseless until neither of them could breathe, because he would kiss her back. Relief, because all of sudden after that simple action she throw away all the baggage she'd never fully realised she had carried. Relief, because in spite of his shock and hurry and her anxiety he kissed her back with love she once, long ago, knew from the glimpses of his mind.

When they lips parted she didn't seem to remember why she had been waiting three months to do this. Not after he gave her that look of pure happiness (and desire for more).

"You took that, Ah take this," she said breathlessly, taking her card from between his fingers (she wasn't sure how he managed not to drop it when he was holding her so tightly). "Be careful, Sugah."

He leaned forward, making their lips meet briefly for one more kiss, before grinning like a fool and hurrying to grumbling Wolverine. When the jet disappeared from her eyes, two things she was positive about. One, she would never be fed up with kissing Remy LeBeau, and two, she will make it through that week or so the mission was supposed to last and give him hundreds of her kisses and more.

This time then, it was Rogue who waited. And Rogue who crept into his room. Well, this one was his fault. He taught her how to deal with locked doors after all. He said it will help her someday. It did.

At the beginning it was simple and harmless. Not really a habit (maybe a small one). She came to his room to play with the deck of cards he'd left on a nightstand before his departure or to wrap herself in one of his trench coats and inhale his scent. Some other times she simply climbed onto his bed and laid motionless just waiting.

For a long time (first two weeks) that was it; simple and harmless. But, of course, things got complicated. They always had. What seemed to be quite usual and smooth mission became the extended one. And what seemed to be a silly, rather rare habit at the end of the third week (when they lost radio contact with the three X-men) became an obsession. She ate, she trained, she worked with her students and in the meantime she came to his room. She wasn't nervous, no. When the fourth week had passed and the team hadn't heard from them, she was just utterly _freaked out_.

It all culminated after exactly a month and nine days. She heard Black Bird's engines in the hangar and immediately ran downstairs, but as it turned out, _he_ wasn't aboard. Neither was Logan. After Jean had released her fiancé from her hug (the woman really took her damn time) Scott could give them some news. And those weren't the good ones.

Mission had gone completely wrong, as if their enemies knew about them from the beginning and let them play their game. At some point (she worked out it was when the X-men lost contact with them) the three men had to part. Gambit and Wolverine were chased and needed to keep a low profile, for how long Cyclops couldn't tell. He didn't even know for sure if they had escaped their enemies. He was the only one who managed to return to the base without bringing a tail of antimutant assassins with himself.

Rogue didn't go ballistic after hearing that (especially the antimutant assassins part), of course not. She simple wanted to slap Jean when the woman gave her that sympathetic look. That's all. Maybe the redhead was a telepath, but she _did not know_ what Rogue felt. She did not. She had no _fucking_ idea how it was to have her heart stopped in her chest. She had no idea what it felt like to be left with only one distant memory of a passionate kiss. She had no goddamn, fucking, shitty idea what it felt like to have nothing else to do besides _waiting_!

Because there was no chance they could find them. She came on a few rescue missions with the others, but it was pointless. Even the Professor couldn't localise them. And when after ten weeks from the beginning of the mission Logan returned _without_ him, she shattered inside. Shattered, but _still_ waited. She was crashed, but _still _waited. The difference was that this time it wasn't hopeful. It was _terrifying_. Her previous obsession became a routine for her. She didn't even sleep in her own room anymore. When she went upstairs after training or whatever nonsense she had to attend, she automatically headed for his door.

Twelfth week had passed since she last saw him and he still wasn't coming back. She started slepping in his T-shirt. Summer was hot and humid this year, just like she remembered from Mississippi and just like it was in Louisiana, in _his_ home.

Thirteenth week had passed and she cried for the first time in years; heavily and forcefully. She ruined the collar of his coat.

Fourteenth week had passed and she destroyed Danger Room so badly that it couldn't be used for the next week. And after that week she destroyed it again.

He still wasn't back and she lost count of time. It could've been months or years since she'd last seen him, last (and, goddamn it, _first_) time kissed him; she couldn't tell. Leaves began to change colours from green to red, orange, yellow and brown. Wind no longer brought her reassurance with warm and dump scent of _their_ homes.

Her days and nights didn't change. During days she furiously throw his beloved playing cards all around the room, cursing his name, and at nights she wrapped the sheets of his bed tightly around herself and buried her face deeply in a pillow, trying to memorize his slowly vanishing scent.

That was how he found her one night, months or years or maybe decades after they'd last _touched_; half asleep in his bed, messy curls falling on her face, traces of single tears barely visible on her rosy cheeks. With strangely much more worn out than he remembered Queen of Hearts clutched firmly in her hand. She didn't hear him coming. Or maybe she did? Her imagination so many times played tricks with her, especially at nights, that she no longer paid attention to the illusions of her mind. It wasn't him. It was wind moving the curtains or one of his coats, which fell from a hanger. Someone closed the door of their room or opened their window. It was not him. At least until she felt calloused fingers sliding against the skin of her exposed arm. How her mind could play tricks like this if she'd never in her entire lifetime had his _bare _fingers against her _bare_ skin? No, her nerves were too sensitive, too _disused_ to be wrong about the touch. She couldn't imagine something she didn't know with such precision, no way. So it had to be…

In a second she jumped on the opposite end of a bed, out of his reach, bringing her knees to her chest and looking with wide eyes at a figure sitting on the edge of the mattress.

_It was him_. His red orbs, those wonderful crimson orbs, which she hadn't looked into for so long, were glowing at her in the dark. On his face, even though it was night, she could see few tiny wounds and stubble. He looked almost like she remembered him, a little tired maybe. His arms were half stretched in her direction as if they were aching to reach for her, to grab her, to hold her. His eyes were pleading for her. Only one word left his throat.

"_Chére..."_

And only one chocked sob had escaped her lips before she throw herself into his arms; her knees on each side of his hips and her own arms tightly locked around him. She clung to him like a child, hiding her face into the skin of his neck and pressing their upper bodies firmly together. Her fists clenched on his trench coat. She held onto him as if she was a castaway, who almost drowned and he was her air after a long time underneath the water.

"You missed me, _Chérie_."

His chest vibrated against her breasts as he spoke; his breath hot in her hair, his words not a question, but a statement.

_He had no idea._

"I hate you," she mumbled, feeling his goose bumps as her lips moved against his neck when she spoke. "I hate you, I hate you, I love you…"

She felt him tense and she realised what she'd just said. She realised he heard it for first time from her. Suddenly she realised she couldn't stop saying it.

"_I love you, I love you, I love you," _she repeated, pressing quick kisses to his neck and jaw. She felt him pull away a little and whimpered at the thought of leaving his arms. However he didn't move back, on the contrary he cupped her face and started kissing every possible inch of it. Her sensitive skin burned and tickled, and shivered, and begged for more of him.

"_Je t'aime ma chérie,_" he whispered and his hot breath ghosted over her lips. "_Je t'aime aussi. Je vais t'aimer toujours._"

She didn't know how she had longed to hear those words from him until he said them. She didn't know it was possible to need someone as much as she needed him. She had no idea how she managed to breathe when their lips met.

The flashback of their last kiss appeared in her mind and she realised this time it was different.

It was release from all pain and fear she'd been living in for months.

It was like spring wind in Mississippi, which used to bring all scents and colours to her.

And it was all _him_.

This time she didn't wait to make a move, she didn't hesitate. When his hands stopped at the hem of his own T-shirt she was wearing, not knowing if she would allow him to go any further, she slid her palms across his chest and then along his muscled arms. His trench coat hit the ground with a soft sound, exactly when his hands moved up her sides under the fabric. She drew in a sharp breath at the feeling of his rough fingers, lifting the material from her skin. She tried to follow his actions, tried to focus, tried not to shiver so forcefully every time he pressed his lips to her neck and collar and shoulders; her own name burning on her skin every time he murmured it against her.

The feeling of his tongue on hers, his bare chest teasing her breasts, his hips between her legs and his muscles tensing underneath her fingertips was something entirely new and surprisingly familiar at the same time. New, because before _him_ she was untouched in more ways than just the physical one. It was him who had broken her inside and by doing so set her free. It was him who made her body arch into his on its own accord. Her skin was dying to feel more of him, to be closer to him, to make him hers forever and this sensation was absolutely unknowable to her. But there was something well known in it too. The feeling of adoration and love and devotion. The feeling of relief and gratitude. She knew it once. She remembered it and it all came back to her, while his rough hands were sliding along her body. She wanted to tell him this, tell him what he had done to her, tell him how grateful she was for it, but he left her only with his name burning on her tongue.

Her ankles crossed on the small of his back, contrasting with his tanned skin, and in the darkness she finally met his crimson eyes again. They searched for something in hers and they seemed to find it, because after a moment of listening to their shallow breaths, with one move he finished what he had started years ago. He broke the last barrier she had. The only barrier she was left with. Her nails dug into his arms and she hissed quietly while her body was adjusting to his. They were so close she felt his muscles tremble against hers. He was saying something to her, soothing her, but all she could think of was that he was still too far from her. She tightened her grip on him, pulled him even closer, deeper, and whispered his name once again. And then again. And then with his every move, until she couldn't seem to remember any other word.

There were many kinds of touch in the world and before the morning came she had felt every one of them.

She awoke to the sound of his breathing and the feeling of his heavy arm laying across her stomach. Her own face was buried into his neck and their legs were tangled. His heat radiated on her and his hair tickled her eyelids gently. She couldn't imagine better morning. She looked at his face, now illuminated by sunlight, and started tracing his features, but this time with absolutely bare fingers. He was back, he was alive and _she_ was _whole_ again. She didn't know and honestly didn't care how much time she spend just laying with him and drinking in his presence before he stirred a little and brought her closer, opening his eyes slightly.

"_Bonjour, mon amour._"

She didn't think possible to get tired of hearing this. She lifted her head and kissed both of his eyelids in response, making his lips twist in a sleepy smile.

"You should be sleeping. You're tired," she murmured; her fingers tangled into his silky hair.

"If you're the cause of my tiredness, I won't complain, _Chérie_."

His smile grew mischievous and she slapped his arm lightly.

"I'm serious, Sugah. Sleep."

He sighed and stretched, making her shiver when his muscles moved against her oversensitive skin. Oh, she was going to love that feeling.

"Loved to, _Chére_, but Remy be needing to see the Professor. And maybe you let the others know that he's still alive," he propounded, but instead of getting out of the bed, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face into the crook of her neck, kissing her shoulder lightly in the process.

Rogue frowned. "Haven't you seen anyone before?"

"Non. Was looking for you first and when I found you I didn't seem to be eager to find anyone else," he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, not moving from his comfortable spot against her.

She wondered if he could hear furious beatsing of her heart. The realization that he was looking for her and only for her, that _she _was his priority made her warm inside. She changed her position and before he could complain about it she pressed her lips to his and prevented him from seeing anyone for the next several hours. Wind outside was cold, but she didn't give a damn about that. She had South in her arms.

Later, when she was dressed and Remy eventually _had to_ go and talk to the Professor she found herself sitting on the kitchen table, slowly drinking her coffee. She was so busy recalling every single moment of the last twenty four hours that she almost didn't hear Logan coming through the door. She realised he was there when he stopped in the middle of the kitchen and sniffed loudly, looking at her carefully; one of his brows raised.

"I see someone got very lucky homecoming," he commented only, continuing his way to the fridge. At the moment the door opened again and her eyes set on the pair of crimson rubies. She smiled from above her mug.

"Indeed, someone did," she murmured to herself, waiting for Remy's arms to wrap themselves around her for what seemed to be a thousandth time this day.

She was the Rogue. Neither the untouchable, nor the untouched one. And she loved every bit of her life.

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**THE END.**

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**A/N: Hope you liked it, reviews would be appreciated.**


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